


Are You There, God? It's Me, Crowley.

by marginaliana



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Crowley has Feels, M/M, Other, Prayer, brief mention of dolphins, five things, must be a day ending in y, post-show
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-09-23 00:43:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20331223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marginaliana/pseuds/marginaliana
Summary: Five times Crowley prayed, after.





	Are You There, God? It's Me, Crowley.

**Author's Note:**

> A million thanks to emef for beta reading.

There were so many different ways to lose one's faith. Humans had a certain range and angels had another, overlapping in a significant section of the continuum. But humans could doubt Her very existence, an ability that angels and demons (blessedly or cursedly, take your pick) lacked. The only faith they had to lose was in whether She was good.

* * *

Crowley didn’t pray, as a rule. 

Before the Fall there hadn’t been any reason to. She'd been there whenever any of them needed her and anyway there was nothing to ask for. Crowley praised Her, of course, but that was more of a state of being rather than an event. Even when things began to change, when he'd begun to ask his first tentative questions, it hadn't been prayer. Looking back on it now (something Crowley did as little as possible), perhaps prayer simply hadn't been invented yet. Prayer was for humans, and they only came along later.

He hadn't prayed when he Fell, nor when he found that his fellow demons were no better than the angels he'd left behind, nor when he'd been assigned to Earth, nor in the fourteenth fucking century. There had been a little bit of prayer during Armageddon, but Crowley rather thought he could be forgiven [1] for that.

And now that threat was gone, and he had nothing to do but live, and so what would be the point?

The point was: Aziraphale.

They walked from the Ritz back to the bookshop, choosing their destination in silent agreement. On a street corner, Crowley tilted his head back by a bare fraction. They were on their own side now and he didn't think Heaven would dare interfere, but that didn't mean She would stay her hand. 

_You made us to love, and that can't be wrong, can it?_ he asked. _You made him, anyway, made him to _be_ loved. Whatever you made me for, he's still Yours. Let him love and be loved._

It was a question, one much like those he'd asked before the Fall. Much like the ones that had _made_ him fall. But if he had to be cast down again for the hope of making Aziraphale happy, well. He'd take the chance.

He waited for a moment, either for an answer or for a bolt of some exciting and new oblivion, direct from God Herself. But there was neither. Crowley blew out a breath and lowered his head and waited, instead, for the light to change. 

Aziraphale cast him a little sideways glance. Crowley attempted to look innocent, then gave it up and tried to look inscrutable instead. Aziraphale's curious expression gave way to a sudden smile, one not quite like any he'd shown before. Crowley didn't know what it meant, and he had the terrifying realization that he'd just been out-inscrutabled.

The light changed and they stepped out into the crossing. Aziraphale reached over and took Crowley’s hand in his own. Crowley started, cheeks suddenly flushed. _Oh,_ he thought. _That's… that's what that smile means.___

He didn’t let go. A brush of wind ruffled Aziraphale's hair; it just touched Crowley's, too. There was nothing divine in it at all, but he decided to take it as a benediction anyway.

* * *

He thought about Warlock often. Adam was an important figure in their lives now, of course, but they'd spent years raising a different boy, and you couldn't raise a child without beginning to have a proprietary interest in him. Crowley had loved Aziraphale first, but he'd loved Warlock second, and that was still quite high up on the list.

Sometimes Crowley would sneak around to see him, usually in his ridiculous American mansion but occasionally off with his father on some PR-inspired jaunt. By thirteen Warlock had figured out how to be a bit clever about being an arse, rather than just shouting, "You smell like poo," at every diplomat he came across [2]. So as his teenage years progressed he would widen his eyes and be a nice, tidy, charming child, and then casually 'remind' his father of things he'd been 'promised': a new dirt bike, or a chance to meet some movie star, or a dog [3].

Crowley had been tempted to start a band and miracle himself into stardom just so that he'd have a chance to see Warlock face to face, but that would have taken him away from Aziraphale for far too long and anyway he wasn't about to live in a tour bus again. No amount of miracles could remove the scent of unwashed musicians.

Eventually Warlock learned how to insult without seeming to insult [4] and took up rhetoric as a school activity and began making his way nicely towards a future in business consulting. Crowley was proud of him, intensely proud, and so occasionally he'd stand in the trees outside the mansion and pray that Warlock remain smart and sharp and immune to the entire continuum of humanity's ability to bullshit. He didn't really think She was listening, or that Warlock would be considered worthy of Her help, but Crowley thought _what the fuck_ and did it anyway.

And then he'd pray, while he was at it, that Warlock would be kind to those who needed kindness. This was on Aziraphale's behalf, naturally. Saving him the trip.

* * *

He slept, and mostly Aziraphale didn't. That was all right – as long as Crowley could wake and find his face mashed into a soft thigh and/or a mass of feathers, he was happy. After a time, though, he could sense traces of frustration in the way Aziraphale sat in bed, the way his feet occasionally twitched as if he wanted to be elsewhere. At first it stung, but Aziraphale always followed him eagerly into the bedroom at night, or whenever Crowley wanted to take a nap.

It was only when Crowley, out of sync with the usual human day cycle [5], woke in a late evening – only then did he understand. He could feel the prayers. They came from bedrooms across the city, from churches, from little alleyways, from closets both physical and metaphorical. Whispers, murmurs, the occasional anguished cry. Praise and despair and wishes of the kind that only humans could make, the inevitable request for world peace that was never going to get granted. All of those prayers making their way up and up to Her ears. Or to someone’s ears, anyway; Crowley was fairly sure no one had a direct line these days.

Aziraphale _yearned_ for them. Helping was in his nature, but without his own direct line (or indirect line, even), there was no one to tell him how to help. He could stop a traffic accident, if he saw one coming, but he couldn't know the secrets in human hearts. Not without presuming, and in this, Crowley knew, Aziraphale would hold fast to his principles.

So Crowley said a little prayer of his own – that a few things would slide sideways into _Aziraphale's_ ears. The sort that were simple and easy, the sort that were unobjectionable under anyone's rules. A wish for someone's sickness to end, a wish that a little Italian restaurant stay open. A wish from an author to be inspired to finish her book. A wish to find a rare stamp for a collection.

If they had to go somewhere, why not here? No direct line meant that they might as well go to someone who would be happy to do them. Quicker that way. Less work for the angels still in heaven.

Justification and bargaining weren't really supposed to be part of how prayer worked, Crowley knew. But if he was going to do it, he'd do it _his_ way, and She'd take it or leave it as She wished regardless.

* * *

There was a thing. About dolphins. When Crowley sobered up, he was extremely glad not to have got a response to that one.

* * *

It wasn't so long after that when he began praying for another not-the-end-of-the-world. 

The battle was coming; they both knew it. Not just inevitably but soon. The humans had begun gearing up even though they didn't know what they were gearing up _for_. Sightings of old friends and enemies had begun turning up in the news. Sometimes together – it would be the demonic and divine against humanity this time and the ethereal groups were working on their teamwork skills.

Crowley was waiting for the shot heard round the world. Either "be not afraid" or, more likely, "be very, very afraid."

He hated the idea, of course. So many years later and humanity had only got more brilliant, had invented more beautiful types of food and alcohol and sunglasses and dancing and ducks. If the angels and demons had been willing to _look_, if they'd been willing to put aside their tendency to <s>shoot</s> hellfire first and ask questions later, they might have seen that.

Because he and Aziraphale, they'd done all right, hadn't they? Two old beings in a cottage on the South Downs, growing prize-winning vegetables [6] and running an antique shop to cover a book-buying habit. Aziraphale puttered around doing miracles here and there. Crowley kept his mayhem and nastiness to people who really deserved it, but it _was_ still doing evil. They were still themselves, for all they lived among the humans. They'd lived here without losing that.

The others could, too. There were places of praise for those who lived only to praise Her, places of creation and places of healing. There were great shining towers to be built; there was bureaucracy enough for all of Hell, and then some. There was even war, human war, for those who knew nothing else. There were places for them.

_If they love You, why can't they love the world?_ He was kneeling in the garden, head down. He'd even folded his hands together for this one, as if it made a difference. _Why put limits on their love?_

Crowley did not trust Her, did not believe in Her goodness. He was angry. He had, for six thousand plus years, been very, very angry. But if there was any chance at all to save what he loved, he would pray.

_Let them see,_ Crowley prayed. _Let them know and then let them choose, and maybe they'll choose the world! Give them a chance. Give _us_ a chance._

Wind rose around him. The leaves trembled. A great voice sang in his head, instantly recognizable even though he'd last heard it thousands of years ago. "Have faith," She said. "Have faith."

Crowley trembled too, but when Her voice had gone he found that, somehow, a kernel of faith had planted itself inside him and begun to grow.

**Author's Note:**

> [1] Ho ho. [back]  
  
[2] Something of a shame, as Crowley had enjoyed hearing that so often. He'd also liked "My dad is the OWNER of AMERICA" and "You're dumb and your prime minister is dumb." Especially because diplomats usually agreed with the bit about the prime minister. [back]  
  
[3] Crowley had worried about the dog. But Warlock picked out a nice cuddly pitbull and named him 'Killer,' so that was all right. [back]  
  
[4] Being around his father was perfect for learning this skill, as many of the other diplomats were excellent at it. [back]  
  
[5] There had been A Situation involving amateur theatre. [back]  
  
[6] Largest Aubergine one year and, in another, Potato Most Like Its Owner, which both of them had been delighted by, albeit for different reasons. [back]  



End file.
